James & Thatch
His feet pound hard against the slick ground. Fast. Frantic. Rounding a sharp corner, his feet slide out from under him, and he slams into a wall. Stars flicker in and out of his vision, an awful perversion of the true night sky.
Why is it always raining on Drommund Kaas?
Again, he is running. Adrenaline. Stims. Endorphins. Fear.
A beep echoes in his ear.
"Cipher?" The voice queries. "Cipher?"
He runs faster.
"Cipher? Cipher? Cipher Cipher CipherCipherCiphercipherciphercipherciphercipherci phercipher…"
"Seeker?"
James shot up, his skull colliding with the headrest of his bed. The cheap wood splintered and cracked under the force of his blow, and a thin line of blood traced back to the injury he had just sustained.
"Stang!" He shouted, gritting his teeth and rubbing the back of his head in pain.
"Stang." He repeated, though with less force, as the pain didn't subside.
James was on the third floor of the Kaas Inn, a fairly cheap hotel on the outskirts of the city. Its biggest perk was 'free showers', which didn't bode well for the rest of its features. But that wasn't why James was there. The Inn was situated just across the street from the Raven's Perch, where Thatch was supposed to meet him.
But it wasn't quite going to go down that simply.
James had trust issues. Serious trust issues. There were a number of reasons why; none of which James felt willing to disclose. The past was past. Or so he liked to think.
So, to deal with his trust issues, James liked to put his partners through certain… tests. Just ensure their loyalty, truthfulness, and all those other wonderful virtues.
Poor Thatch.
He had no idea what was coming.
Thatch showed up at the Raven's Perch at 0900 GST, dressed in a sharply cut, tight fitting formal suit. James was impressed; he played the part of an Imperial well.
A shame it meant nothing at the Raven's Perch.
The bars hours were 1000 GST to 2200 GST, pretty standard for a home-run inn. So, as a penalty for punctuality, Thatch was forced to stand, awkwardly, by the door, waiting for the Inn to open.
Across the street, up on his third floor patio, James was lounging. Nursing a glass of Balmorran ale, James was thankful for the numbing properties of alcohol. Exhaustion threatened to strike him at any moment, and his eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings trying to stay afloat. The whole night had been spent doing research on "The Prince" and setting up the test for Thatch.
Now that he thought about it; it had been almost two days since he'd gotten any kind of sleep. The thought made his eyelids flick down once more, but a sharp jab of determination got them back up in no time. Well, maybe some time. Only took a minute or so, really.
Annoyed, James threw a glance at his watch. They were late. The plan should have been in motion by now. Grabbing the bottle, James was dismayed to find it emptied. Obviously he'd drunk more than he'd thought. With a loud hiccup, he chucked the bottle over the edge of the balcony, his brain not thinking rationally. The bottle, after a brief and glorious flight, came crashing down on the metal street below, shattering into thousands of shards. Within moments, compartments in the street opened up and allowed several mouse droids to whirr out, removing the potential hazard within seconds.
"Seeker? Is that you?" Damn, he'd seen him. Smiling as only a drunken man can, James moved to the edge of the balcony, looking out to see the dismayed Thatch.
"It's James. Name is James." He shouted, lips blubbering, "What are you wearing? Is that a suit?" Releasing a drunken chuckle, he pointed to Thatch accusingly. Or tried to, at least. "No one wears suits out 'ere."
"Seriously?" Shouted back a, now very annoyed, Thatch. "Do you know how much work I put into looking like this?"
"Don't try hard." James giggled, dropping his glass off the balcony now, and getting the same results. "People will see through ya a mile 'way."
"See through what?" Thatch asked meaningfully, giving James a serious look. They weren't supposed to have mentioned that. That Thatch wasn't Imperial.
"Oh, ya." Smiling James, now attempting to drop his chair off the balcony. One of the mouse droids, having not returned yet, stood off a few meters from where everything else had fallen, giving James what was almost a… accusing look. "Not supposed to talk 'bout that…" Getting leverage on the chair, James made to throw it off, his drunken stupor rendering the task rather difficult.
"Stop that!" Thatch shouted, waving his hands in utter confusion. "What are you even doing up there? I thought we had work to do."
"Dis is work." Grunted James, finally getting the chair over. As with the pervious items, it shattered harmlessly on the ground. The little mouse droid, watching, let out an angry whirr and made to clean it up.
Sighing, Thatch shook his head and walked away, "Guess I'm calling for a new Seeker, then."
"You do that!" James shouted, "Dat'll show the Minister."
"He'll probably fire you."
"He can't."
Curious, Thatch paused, turning back to look at the drunken man he'd almost worked with. "What do you mean by that? Why can't he?"
Smiling broadly, James pointed behind Thatch, laughing, "Too late." He cackled, moving back inside his room and out of sight.
"What?" Asked Thatch, pitching his voice to try and get James' attention. Then he heard the buzz of an air speeder behind him. Spinning, Thatch was just in time to see a blue and yellow twin-seated air speeder speed towards him, the man driving it brandishing a gun.
By the time Thatch had processed this, the man had fired the gun.
The round met Thatch's skull with startling precision, and within the moment everything went black.
Lord Regis
"Sir!" The helmsman exclaimed, trading hurried glances back and forth between the battle before him and Lord Regis next to him. "This plan is suicide!"
"That was the idea, Captain." Spoke Regis, deadpan as always. "Regardless of your feelings on the matter, we will proceed as I have dictated. Please offer any tactical advice as you see fit." Regis, known among the Sith for his composure, stared down the Captain, knowing that he was going to get his way.
"I… I suppose that is our only option… sir." There was fear in his eyes. That troubled Regis.
"You may send a quick goodbye to your loved ones, but make it fast. We have limited time." The Sith was not heartless, merely power hungry. And to lead men, to hold the power and army gives, one must learn to respect the morale of the men. Granted, it would not be relevant much longer, but Regis held out hope. Hope… a strange thing for a Sith to hold. No wonder the Jedi had held the Sith off for so long.
"Thank you, sir." The Captain said hesitantly, leaving the command and pulling out a small holocomm. Turning from the Captain to give him privacy, Regis regarded the battle.
Watching the field before him, Regis saw the crossfire move steadily closer. Saw the ships move even closer to completely surrounding them. He had to give his opponent credit, he was clever. Most men, upon gaining such an upper hand, would have moved to overwhelm his force through numbers. But that cost lives, and it was a move made only amateurs. The method his opponent was employing gave them the safety of cover, while allowing them to move on his position, even if it was very slowly.
But it wouldn't matter for much longer.
"I'm done, sir. Ready to move ahead with the plan." The Captain's voice was shaky, but stoic all the same.
"Good. Send the command to engineering, and tell the men to prepare for evacuation. Arm them."
"Understood."
Following his orders, the Captain danced and delegated around the bridge, turning the static horror into useful adrenaline. It took less than a minute to relay the orders, but for Regis it was too much time. Glancing at the tactical screen, he saw they had less than forty-five seconds before they came under fire.
"Are you ready for this, Captain?" Asked Regis briskly, keeping his voice low in quiet reverence. To him, the souls on the ship were already dead, just waiting for the final confirmation.
"It's David, sir. Been an honor."
"David, then. I must admit, you're a remarkable Captain."
"Were. Were a remarkable Captain."
"Yes. I suppose so." The idea of death fascinated Regis, even now, as he stood on the doorstep. This man, David, considered himself dead already. Was it a way to try and jinx himself? Or maybe it was his way of accepting the end. Regis was curious. Far too curious. It would be the death of him.
How ironic.
The tactical display lit up, and proximity alarms sounded across the bridge. Seconds later, the ship buckled and heaved, bouncing on the waves of cannon and missile fire.
"Well, here we go." David said, opening the comm and relaying a variety of complex orders. "I'll see you on the other side, sir." Indicators on the console began to glow red, showing a loss of power to several crucial areas of the ship.
Main Batteries: Down
Forward Shields: Down
Missile Batteries: Down
Primary Power: Down- Moving to Auxiliary
Engine One: Coolant leak- Unresponsive
Remaining Power transferring to Engines Two, Three, and Four- Transferred.
Primary Systems being taken off-line, please wait…
…
Auxiliary Systems now responding; secondary systems now offline
Power redirected to Engines Two, Three-
Engine Four: Not responding.
Sensors offline- unable to determine source of problem
Power redirecting from Engine Four to Engines Two and Three.
Life Support: Offline
"Sir." David spoke, quietly, standing to attention one last time. Regis nodded at him meaningfully before closing his eyes to focus on the Force. Their ship, a ragged collection of metal at this point, was spiraling dangerously quickly towards the Republic flagship.
Several other ships were redirecting on an intercept course, but none could match the suicidal speed of the Auburn Wrath. Blaster fire made the world a living collage of color, and Regis turned to comment on this to David. But the man was already dead, suffocated. When the power had been diverted from Life Support, the ship had stopped bothering to fix the multiple atmosphere leaks. The men had died on exposure. It was a ghost ship now.
Regis, protected by the Force, would last a little longer. He didn't know how long, however. The Force was still a grand mystery to him.
So he watched, through the Force, as he approached the flagship, watched as the fear in the people grew. Fear in the enemy… that was something he could savor. But, at the heart of it, he felt a stoic, calm presence. A Jedi? No… too weak. But this was surely the commander, and someone that Regis dearly wished to meet.
The ships collided in a crash of metal, and Regis' last thoughts were of death.
John Vane
"They attacked us." It was the news. The only news people could talk about. They'd seen it from their homes, the sky erupting in bursts of flame and color. A few men had died from the resulting debris, and dozens of farms were ruined. The people were angry.
"Not directly." Shouted a Republic official, standing high on his perch, a balcony built into the Republic Embassy. "Calm down, we will address your concerns in due time." Stones, pens, food, they all flew towards the official, peppering him in anger. The people needed a patsy, they needed something to vent their rage on.
"They killed half my livestock!"
"My wife! Damn debris killed my wife! I want justice!"
"We saw the fight! It was an ambush! Why couldn't you have set the trap somewhere else?"
"My land, all of my land!"
"My children!"
"My husband!"
"My crops!"
"My-"
"Stop this!" The voice didn't come from the official, now cowering within the embassy, but, rather, from behind the mob itself. People, angry and emotional, spun to turn their rage on the new speaker, before they recognized him.
John Vane, hardworking farmer and unofficial mayor of their settlement, a settlement for which there was still no name, even though it had begun to show significant growth, had spoken. His word had become law, almost. Through respect and necessity, the people of the settlement had taken him as their de facto leader, and now they would have to live by that.
"We gain nothing by bickering! Even if the Republic is in the wrong, and I'm not saying they are, we need to be civilized about this! We cannot expect a rational response when we're busy throwing food at them!" To prove his point, John swiped a ripe fruit from a farmer and threw in on the ground.
"That was ripe! Are you really so desperate that you'd waste your own crop just to have something to throw at this poor man?" Gesturing to the balcony, John was unaware that the Republic official had already retreated inside. "We are better than this, aren't we?"
The crowd had quieted substantially now… an air of guilt surrounding their actions. They knew that they were in the wrong. They knew. John was just the only one there who had the guts to call them out on it. That was why he was in charge.
"What gives you the right to say that?" A husky voice graveled from the rear of the crowd. Moments later, shoving his way disdainfully through the farmers, John was greeted by, what some would call, his nemesis. Charles Stephan, a lifelong merc, had chosen to make himself a nuisance on this world, knowing he would be able to brutalize and threaten anyone would stand up to him. Even John felt his stomach turn at the thought of facing down Stephan. He stood at 7 feet flat, and wore lean muscles that were tough as steel, but didn't look it. A result of a failed genetic experiment by the Republic decades ago, he was quite literally born to fight.
"Well, what gives you the right?"
John didn't have an answer. Fear was bubbling in his mind, and he could barely keep his feet. "Uh… um…" He managed to stutter, and Stephan took a step forward.
Advantage; Stephan.
"You don't hold any real power. Wouldn't know what to do with it. You're just a little boy, wearing papa's hat. Didn't even have the guts to bring his gun, huh?"
"I don't need weapons."
"Hahaha…" The laughter was merciless, if that can even be said of it. It cut into John, and as Stephan riled the crowd, a few nervous farmers joined in. John was losing. With a sudden flicker of movement, Stephan spun, drawing his weapon in one smooth movement and loosing a round at John. The supercharged air buzzed just past John and exploded on the dirt next to him. The discharged energy set John's hair on edge, and he flinched backwards.
With a cruel grimace, Stephan furrowed his eyebrows at John, "Two for flinching." With a gesture, he sent two more bolts out, making John dance in order to dodge them. A few farmers chuckled at the show… if you could even call it that.
"I run this place. Accept that Mr. Vane, and go home to your wife before I do." Spinning his blaster in his hands, it somehow made its way back to its holster. John wasn't quite sure how he managed to do that.
"But I-"
"Go home!" A select few farmers shouted before clapping Stephan on the back.
Game, set, and match; Stephan.
"Now!" Cried Stephan, raising his arms and getting most of the crowd to join in, to start cheering. "Let's get some answers!" And the barrage continued. Produce was flung through the air, and a cacophony of sound polluted the skies.
John had lost. In more ways than one.